Shopping in the western world has been rebranded ‘Retail Therapy’. It’s supposed to ease the stresses of life and make the shopper feel better about themselves. For the crew of Ruffian we’ve undergone a rather unhealthy dose of retail therapy in St Martin and feel it would have been less painful and more enjoyable to have undergone hourly ECT treatments.

The road to retail therapy is usually a slow and congested one but that wasn’t the case for us. With the sun peeking over the palm trees in Barbuda up came the anchor and before it was even dry the kite was popped. Effortless miles flew by under the keel and we mused just how quick we’d be going with our clean bottom AND the new sails that were waiting for us in St Martin. We only hoped that the additional speed wouldn’t be depleted by the weight we’d be putting on after eating yummy French pastries and cheeses.

Approaching St Martin we encountered the aquatic equivalent of a roadblock. While Iain was ‘busy with his morning constitution the radio sparked into life with the Dutch coastguard on the end of it. Somewhat flustered Iain answered all their questions, but the next thing we knew we were being escorted into St Martin. Could this have something to do with the answers he gave with an addled mind or did they just want to find out how such a small boat was going so fast?

Wanting a closer look, the coastguard rib, which was as big as we were pulled alongside and suddenly the guard rail was in the water as 3 burly tooled up (with guns that is) dudes complete with mirrored sunglasses tried to make themselves at home in our tiny cockpit.

As soon as the sunglasses were removed so were the personas of hard men armed to the teeth. It was no wonder that these guys were so lucky with the ladies as Fiona swooned at their manliness and nearly keeled over when they turned on their charm.

With the commute to the shops complete it was now time to start the painful retail therapy and first on the list were our new sails.

We thought that Thug was very much upto the task of transporting the sails, us and a plethora of stores across the lagoon. Everything was piled into thug and it looked like he was transporting mountain made of boxes. His little engine pushed us along at the pace of a snail and we heard a little cough, then a bigger cough, then silence. This was not ideal as Ruffian was a long way away and felt even further as we’d managed to use the oars as the foundation of our box maintain.

Speaking nicely to his engine and praying to the gods of outboards did nothing to relieve our precarious situation. Fiona then reached over, turned the fuel on and we were off. A101, outboards need petrol.

For days and days we hit the shops that are nowhere else in the Caribbean. Riggers were utilised, chandleries robbed us, technicians were consulted and then there were the grocery stores and most importantly the wine shops.

Stores on Ruffian had been depleted to the point we were eating the most bizarre concoctions and, like Mrs Hubbard’s Cupboard, the bilges were empty. We shopped and shopped and shopped, finding the best and cheapest produce and Ruffian slowly sunk under the weight of stores that should take us to another continent.

The 7th day of the week dawned and thankfully we could take a day off the infernal task of taking more therapy. We were retailed out and as usual the call of the hills was load. In front of Ruffian was the 2nd highest peak in St Martin and we thought what could be better in the heat of the unrelenting baking sun than to take a gentle stroll up it to views that went on forever and where we could have the bizarre experience of looking down on aeroplanes.

Back on Ruffian not all was well. We now took to the task of commissioning everything we’d bought and were so excited to get the new genoa up that our pelvic floors nearly failed. It was then time for the new mainsail. We unrolled it and went nearly blind with the whiteness of its colour and deaf by the crackleness of the cloth. It looked lovely, felt lovely and boy would it make us go fast. Unfortunately, as a sail it was about as much use as a bicycle to a fish. There was no way to attach it to the mast. No slugs, no sliders, no batten car attachments. We felt cheated and deflated and getting this weapon locked and loaded on Ruffian would have to wait for another day, another island and most importantly a visit to Doyle loft.

Now that we are sure that retail therapy isn’t for us it’s time to take to the ocean where we can loose all the stresses of everyday life, feel happy in ourselves and marvel and the beauty of nature.

Its an early off from Barbuda and not a bird was stirring.


Effortless kite up sailing.


‘The Bucket’ is on and some enthusiastic sailors are still out sailing.


Anchoring behind barren empty hills. We like that.


Hiya Mr Nice Officer with your big guns and bigger boots. Looks like we’re going be boarded.


Breathe in and think thin.


Thug as usual takes the load.


An unhappy Fiona is yet again disappointed by the size of plates.


Woohoo. New sails and all branded for the fine ship Ruffian.


Just how much Dacron can 1 man handle.


Just before the big ‘up’.


Just for a change we walk up some BIG hills.


Squeeze around some rocks.


And then check out the amazing views.


Before having to head down again.


The shopping continues.


And Fiona managed to smile through her ‘retail therapy’.


The bows of boats in St Martin are like bows nowhere else in the world.


Safety first. Will Iain retain both his legs and hands.


Ruffian ready once again ready for the off.